Kind of dark, I know. This is a writer's mind, on a bad day.
The demons cling to what they may
Revel in woe and decay
For what is it that keeps alive
The blood and flesh may live, and strive
Nay, in a mind swarming with words
Grasp for rhyme, heading towards
That unbreachable wall, a writer's block
Experience a numbing shock
Flurry of hands, nonsense phrase
Frustration then, mind a maze
No relief for unending flood
Of thoughts, beliefs, spilling blood?
Inky hands shred the attempt
No poem yet has been exempt
A fresh sheet, lined with waiting space
For new nonsense to take its place
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